


I Can Take the Trouble

by samescenes



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Established Relationship, Fingerfucking, M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 14:45:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samescenes/pseuds/samescenes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To see Nate hand so much of himself over to Brad, to still allow him this, after everything, makes something cold and hard constrict in Brad’s chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can Take the Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt at the generation kill kink meme, "make up sex". Only, it's the kind of angry sex that comes from a refusal to discuss problems like adults. I blame Brad. You're free to blame whomever you'd like.

Nate’s grown his hair out, just enough to grab at the crown of his skull, so Brad does so, yanking Nate’s head back. Nate’s lips fall apart on a gasp, red and swollen and looking like they’re hurting. That’s okay. Brad’s in the kind of mood to make everything hurt, just a little, just enough for it to linger. He runs a harsh thumb over Nate’s lower lip, pressing it so hard the skin goes white and Brad can clearly feel Nate’s teeth.

Nate stares up at Brad, bent under him, eyes wide and cheeks flushed. In any other circumstance, Nate would look damn cherubic, except they’re kneeling naked on their bed, and Nate’s panting slightly, a vein popping out in his stretched neck.

“Never again, do you hear me?” Nate whispers, like their positions are reversed, like he’s the one in control here. Maybe he is. Brad can never tell. He’s only had two beers, but the adrenaline is messing with his head, making everything go fast and slow in turns.

“If you’ve got a problem, you come to me, you open your mouth and you form words, do you understand?” Nate’s voice is soft, hoarse. He had slammed Brad against the front door as soon as it closed and sucked Brad’s cock viciously, loudly, extravagantly. “You can’t just shut the door in my face, and run off to drown yourself at the nearest shithole, do you understand?”

“And if I do, you’ll find me, is that the lesson here?” Brad says.

Nate smiles, just a little, the left corner of his mouth ticking upward. “Pretty much,” he says. “Now kiss me, motherfucker.”

So Brad does, leaning down and pressing his lips against Nate’s, not a kiss so much as a peck on the mouth. 

“What are you, Amish –” Nate starts, but is cut off by Brad leaning down again, rougher, bringing their chests crashing together. Brad puts everything in it, his frustration, his words, his fear, his goddamn overwhelming trepidation that something is going to go horribly, terribly wrong —

And Nate answers in kind, surging upward, out of Brad’s hold, their teeth clacking together so hard Brad feels like he’s cut the inside of his lip. He bites down on Nate’s bottom lip in retaliation, and Nate makes a muffled outraged sound. He swings an arm over Brad’s shoulder, clutching at the base of Brad’s neck, bringing them impossibly closer, so their noses grind against each other. It’s a crazy messy kiss, tongue everywhere, and surely no one over the age of nineteen has kissed someone with this little finesse, ever. It’s fighting more than it’s fucking, and it ignites something in Brad, some short fuse that obliterates the path between his brain and his cock. He tears himself away from Nate, pushing him backward with enough force that Nate bounces on the bed. There’s an animal snarl on Nate’s face, one that Brad can feel mirrored in his chest, in the pounding of his heart. 

“I can fucking take anything you want to give me,” Nate says, chest heaving, red on his cheeks, on his neck. Brad shuffles up the bed, leaning over Nate to snatch the lube from the bedside drawer. He coats the fingers of his right hand, chucks the bottle over the side of the bed, and slings one of Nate’s legs up into the crook of his elbow. He pushes the other leg wide, pinning Nate’s knee down on the mattress, and telling Nate with a glance he wants it to stay there.

“Don’t touch yourself until I say you can,” Brad grunts, rubbing two lube-slick fingers over Nate’s asshole.

“Fuck you,” Nate grunts back, but his hands flex impotently in the bedding at his side as Brad pushes a finger in. They had sex, what, last night? Early this morning? Brad’s been awake a while, since it all went to shit, and it’s all started to blur together, but the point is, Nate moans and asks for more, so Brad feels fine pushing two fingers in almost straight away.

Nate groans like he’s been gut punched, loud and long, his hands fisting and releasing. 

“Like this?” Brad says, shoulder working, driving his fingers in and out, in and out.

“‘M not fucking delicate,” Nate grits out. “I can take anything you’ve got, Colbert.”

Brad scissors his fingers, twisting his hand on the way back in, and Nate yells, a hand flying up to grip the headboard, just for something to hang on to. When Brad slides a third finger home, he takes his eyes off Nate’s face, the bob of his Adam’s apple, to watch the sweet, dirty clutch of Nate’s asshole giving away to Brad, to Brad’s fingers.

Brad is willing to fingerfuck Nate all night and all day, if that’s what’s needed to make Nate sex-stupid and limp, and stop his crusade against Brad and Brad’s feelings. When Nate tries to surge up to get his arms around Brad, Brad quickly puts a hand on Nate’s chest, forcing him down onto the mattress, his supine form bucking underneath Brad as Brad keeps going, relentless. He’s making unconstrained, inelegant sounds, and when he says, “Fuck, Brad, fuck, I need to come – can I, I need,” Brad smiles. 

“No,” Brad says, and when he starts fucking Nate with four fingers, that’s when Nate goes soundless, his back arching, his mouth hanging open as his breath catches. Brad’s shoulder is getting sore by now, but it’s fucking worth it, fucking Nate almost to the third knuckle, where his hand is widest. 

It’s like there’s a rodeo bull under Brad’s hand, Nate thrashing like a wild thing, like he’s lost all his senses. That’s what Brad wants, it’s what he’s after, and to see Nate hand so much of himself over to Brad, to still allow him this, after everything, makes something cold and hard constrict in Brad’s chest.

“You can touch yourself,” Brad says, but his tongue is thick, slow, so he tries again, “you can get yourself off for me.”

“Thank Christ,” Nate gasps, the hand on the headboard coming down to take a hold of his dick. The sight of Nate fucking his fist, masturbating using Brad as an accessory, makes Brad swallow, even though his tongue feels oversized in his mouth, dry as any Iraqi desert. It’s barely the work of another thirty seconds, watching the filthy clench of Nate’s asshole, knowing he’s the one doing this to Nate, he’s the only one who’s allowed, before Nate comes, coating his hand and belly. 

Brad keeps rocking his hand into him, gentler, until Nate’s finished coming, until the thigh slung up over his arm starts to shake. Brad lets it fall to the side so Nate’s legs are open on either side of him. Nate’s chest is heaving, and he’s got his arm flung over his face, buried in the crook of his elbow. Brad just wants to see Nate’s face, what’s written there. Brad withdraws his fingers then puts two back in, considering. Nate’s breath hitches and he lifts his forearm, glaring at Brad from underneath. Things are back to normal, then. Great.

Brad keeps fucking Nate slow, feeling rather than seeing the intermittent shocks that run through Nate’s thighs. Nate sighs, then, “Time out.”

Brad pulls out, then sits back on his haunches. Nate struggles to sit upright. His face is wrecked, and his hair even more so. Brad smiles, and Nate smiles back, laughing a little.

“Fuck,” he says. “I just need to splash some water on my face, I feel like I’m sweating through the sheets.”

“Nice,” Brad says.

“Take it as a compliment,” Nate says. “I’ll be right back, and we can continue.” He struggles off the bed, groaning like his muscles have all seized, and staggers into the bathroom on shaky legs. Brad moves to sit on the edge of the bed, digging his toes into the deeply piled carpet that Nate had been obsessed with when they first looked at the place.

When Nate comes out, drying his face and torso with a towel, Brad says, “I do love you. I hope you know.” They say never to get emotional during or directly after sex, but Brad hasn’t come yet so he hopes this doesn’t count. 

Nate pauses, backlit by the yellow flourescent of the ensuite bathroom.

“I do know,” Nate says, coming over to stand between Brad’s thighs, kissing Brad on the forehead like he’s a child, like a benediction, like Nate’s some high fucking holy priest. Brad wishes he could hold on to his anger, but he can’t in the face of Nate’s earnestness. “I do know,” Nate repeats, whispering, his lips moving against the front of Brad’s hairline.

They breathe together for several seconds. “We’re gonna be alright,” Nate says.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Nate puts a finger under Brad’s chin, tilting Brad’s face so Nate can kiss him sweetly. It’s an eerie mirror of earlier.

“Now,” Nate says. “Did I, or did I not, say something about continuing?”

“I may have heard something about that,” Brad says, wrapping an arm around Nate’s waist and pulling him down. Nate laughs.


End file.
